


The Wandmaker's Son

by LadyShadowphyre



Series: The Wandmakers Trilogy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, F/M, Gen, M/M, Marauders' Era, Rescued From FanFiction.Net, Technically Underage Relations Except Not, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyShadowphyre/pseuds/LadyShadowphyre
Summary: "I'm going. I've had enough." They say the wand chooses the wizard, and Magic has a funny way of looking out for Her chosen ones, even when it mean sending them back in time upon being hit by the Knight Bus.





	1. Escape from Privet Drive

**Author's Note:**

> My little sister challenged me to write a fic where Harry was adopted by Ollivander since she'd never seen one. I dragged my feet on writing it - like I really need another WIP - until my interest was caught and held by time-travel fics and it occurred to me that almost every story I'd found was set after the fifth or sixth book and had Harry going back in time to when his parents were sixteen or seventeen. Seeing as I barely acknowledge the existence of any book after book four, well, you can imagine how that made my writing urge twitch. So I combined them.

**H** ARRY POTTER WAS a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another, he happened to be a wizard. His only living family, however, happened to hate anything "unusual" which, to them, included anything pertaining to magic, particularly Harry himself.

The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, were Muggles - that is to say, people without the ability to touch and use magic - and they had a rather medieval attitude towards magic as a result. His mother's sister, Petunia, and her husband, Vernon, preferred to ignore Harry entirely unless they were loading him down with chores or punishing him for not being "normal", and their son Dudley learned by example that tormenting his cousin was perfectly acceptable. For years, the Dursleys had tried to squash the magic out of Harry by keeping him as downtrodden as possible without killing him, and they had been quite furious to have been unsuccessful.

Worse still was when Veron's sister, Marge, decided to visit with her vicious little dog and her vicious little attitude (which was nearly as big as she was and, being Vernon's sister, Marge was predisposed to being large). She had been told by Vernon that Harry went to St Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, which fit well with the previous story that Harry's parents had been unemployed drunks who had died in a car crash, and she wasted no time in belittling Harry and harping on his "worthless drunk of a father and whore of a mother". And this was where Aunt Marge had made a fatal mistake. Because Lily and James Potter had been very upstanding wizarding citizens and had been killed by the Dark Lord Voldemort when Harry was a baby, and Harry knew this. Which brings us to yet another reason that Harry was unusual.

He was furious, and when Harry was furious, strange things tended to happen which he now knew were accidental magic.

'COME BACK IN HERE!' Vernon bellowed at Harry. 'COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!'

The "her" in question was Aunt Marge who, upon waking Harry's fury, had abruptly begun to expand until she was more of a balloon of a woman than she had already been. Harry, however, had no intention of "putting her right", nor of staying in the Dursley's house for another minute.

'She deserved it,' he snapped, pointing his wand at his uncle and breathing rapidly. 'She deserved what she got. You keep away from me.'

He fumbled behind him for the latch of the front door, pushing it open and shoving his trunk and the cage for his beloved owl Hedwig out the door behind him.

'I'm going,' he said with finality to his uncle's purple face. 'I've had enough.'

And then he was out the door and walking down the quiet, empty street, hauling his trunk behind him with Hedwig's cage under one arm. He was several streets away before his fury began to run out and he collapsed onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting with the effort of hauling his trunk. He sat, catching his breath, and let the remaining fury simmer through him as he began to think about where he could go now. It was all very well to storm out of his relatives' home in righteous fury, but the fact remained that he hadn't exactly thought out such an action despite frequent daydreams of running away before.

He had no Muggle money in any denomination, and he couldn't remember offhand how much wizard money he had left over from the year before. It was late in the evening already, so the likelihood of finding transport was low even if he could afford it. Of course, that was assuming he had somewhere to go, and considering the fact that he'd just done some pretty hefty magic - underage, no less - that cut out pretty much everywhere he could think of in the wizarding world, including Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione were out, too, both of them being abroad for the summer. That only made him feel worse as his anger began to subside and the reality of his current situation began to set in.

Ruthlessly, he shoved down the impractical feeling of hopelessness and forced himself to think rationally. So he was likely to be expelled from Hogwarts for breaking the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, accidental magic or not. If he was going to be on the run, at least he had a couple of things to make it easier. His father's Invisibility Cloak and his Nimbus Two Thousand were both in his trunk. If nothing else, he could hide with the one and use the other to get somewhere more secure than the middle of a Muggle street. He had no sooner jumped down from the wall and gone to his trunk to open it, however, when he stiffened and straightened up, looking around suspiciously.

A prickling sensation as if he was being watched crawled up the back of Harry's neck, but the street still appeared deserted. Harry narrowed his eyes slightly, scanning the sides of the street. Stretching out his senses, highly tuned from years of evading Dudley and his gang, his focus moved to the narrow gap between the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted, silently cursing the prescription for his glasses that should have been updated last year. If only whatever it was would move! At least then he'd know if it was just a stray cat or... something else.

' _ Lumos _ ,' he whispered, then flinched away as the light on the end of his wand blazed up. Holding it high above his head, he peered into the gap. Harry froze. In the light of his wand, he could clearly see the outline of something very large and very dark with huge, wide, gleaming eyes. Harry took an involuntary step backwards at the sight. His legs hit his trunk and he tripped, his wand flying out of his hand as he toppled backwards into the street, one arm outflung to catch his fall--

There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his hands to shield his eyes against a suddenly much brighter light than his wand.

What happened next is a very curious occurrence. To an outside observer, there was a brilliant flash of multi-coloured light, as if a pair of multi-coloured torches had reflected off the metal grill of the bus just as it bore down on Harry. If someone happened to be adept at reading magic, they would be more readily able to identify the separate flashes of colour and deduce that Harry's innate defensive magic was reacting with the buffer charms on the huge vehicle.

All Harry knew was that suddenly his world was exploding in light, by which he just caught a glimpse of the hulking shadow resolving itself into what looked like a huge black dog, just before everything went dark.

'Cor! Blimey, Ern!'

Nineteen-year-old Stan Shunpike jumped down from the door of the Knight Bus and ambled over to the fallen boy. He arrived just after the huge black dog that had been lurking in the alley who now stood over the boy, licking his face and whining. For a moment, Stan was actually afraid the boy was dead until he stirred and groaned, reaching up to bat weakly at the dog.

'Cut it out, Pa'foot...' the boy mumbled as he opened slightly-unfocused green eyes. The dog jerked back and yipped, and the boy blinked at him, then blinked again and reached up to his face to adjust his glasses.

'You okay, kid?' Stan asked worriedly, hovering. The boy shifted his focus and peered up at him.

'Ah, fine, just... startled,' the boy mumbled. He looked around the street and scrambled up awkwardly, retrieving his wand from a couple feet away and looking up at the bus in bemusement. 'I wasn't expecting that. Ah, you're...?'

'Stan Shunpike's the name. Woss yours?' Stan asked.

'Ah, Terry Boot,' the boy responded, ducking his head a bit. 'I need to get to London, and... bugger, where is he?' the boy broke off in a mutter. 'Padfoot? Here boy!'

With a low whine, the huge dog slunk back out of the shadows and approached the boy, tail lowered. "Terry" shook his head and approached, rubbing the rather ragged-looking dog's head and shoulders in very thorough petting. Glancing back at Stan, he amended, ' _ We _ need to get to London, Park Square West in Marylebone if that's alright?' Stan blinked at the dog uncertainly.

'Is 'e safe?' he asked dubiously. He'd never seen a dog that big.

'Perfectly,' Terry said seriously. 'He's even housetrained.' The dog looked up at the boy with what Stan would swear was a betrayed look.

'Well, alrigh' then,' he said. 'Fare's eleven sickles, but for firteen you get 'ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an 'ot water bottle an' a toofbrush in the colour of your choice.'

The boy opened up the trunk and dug into it, emerging with a galleon that he handed to Stan before picking up his trunk and the owl cage. 'Red, please, and a bed near the back so we won't accidentally disturb anyone?'

Stan gestured him on and led him past the elderly driver, whom he absently introduced as Ernie Prang. The trunk was shoved under one of the beds in the back as requested and Stan produced the requested toothbrush while Terry sat on the bed and the dog hesitantly jumped up to curl up at the foot. Stan excused himself and, very shortly, the bus was underway with another tremendous BANG.

'Well, Padfoot old boy,' the boy who looked like Harry Potter and called himself Terry Boot said in an undertone as he turned to the dog and removed his glasses, one eyebrow raised. 'You've got some explaining to do.'


	2. 31 July, 1969

**C** 'MON LAD, WAKE up now,' a strange voice was saying from above Harry. He groaned and slowly opened his eyes, then flinched and closed them again. The lights around him were very bright, making his head throb painfully. A pair of warm hands took his arms and helped him to sit up. 'Take it easy, there,' the stranger murmured.

'Who--' Harry started, then clenched his teeth a bit in pain as the upward motion caused a shift and his head began to throb more prominently.

'Ed Laurence's the name, lad,' the stranger said amiably. 'Conductor of the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard.' The voice paused. 'Ordinarily a wizard sticks out his wand when he wants to call us, not throw himself into the street, but since you don't seem to have a wand....'

_That_ caught Harry's attention and he forced his eyes open almost frantically. His eyes watered at the brightness of the light - headlights, he realised dimly - as he began to look around him worriedly.

He was still on Magnolia Crescent, or so the nearby sign declared. Everything else, however, was completely different. The nearest house was a different colour, there was a line of bushes in place of the wall, and - most alarmingly - his trunk and Hedwig's cage were gone. So was his wand, he realised as he scanned the street desperately for any sign of it. He felt his stomach clench. Alone, unarmed, in the company of a stranger....

He turned his head and glanced at "Ed Laurence" warily. The man was about middle age with thinning brown hair and a crooked nose that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Professor Snape. Unlike Professor Snape, this man's eyes were kind and held a certain level of concern mixed with curiosity. Belatedly, Harry realised that the comment about his lack of wand had been a roundabout question.

'No,' he said hoarsely. 'I don't have a wand... yet,' he amended, thinking quickly. 'My relatives kicked me out when they found out. They're Muggles and don't like magic,' he added. True enough, there. The Dursleys hated magic, and Harry himself hardly looked like a wizard in Dudley's old castoffs. Moreover, it was earning him a sympathetic look from the conductor.

'Well, that's a rough'un,' Ed said. He looked up and down the street, then shrugged a bit. 'C'mon, up you get. We've got a couple o' fares headed for the Leaky Cauldron. You kin ride along with 'em, maybe get a room for the night 'til the shock wears off and you can get your head on straight.'

'I don't want to be a bother,' Harry started, but Ed waved him silent.

'T'ain't a bother, lad. We're already headed that way,' he said, and helped Harry to his feet and carefully into the bus.

There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass bedsteads stood beside curtained windows. White tapered candles burned in brackets beside each bed and illuminated the wood-panelled walls. One of the beds was occupied by an older woman who sat against the headboard with a book propped on her lap, head tilted back in sleep and snoring quietly.

'You take this'un, lad,' Ed murmured softly, helping Harry to sit down on the bed right behind the driver, who was sitting in an armchair in front of the steering wheel. 'This is Ernie Prang, our driver. What's your name, lad?'

'Er, Colin Creevy,' Harry said, giving the first "Muggleborn" name he could think of. The driver, Ernie Prang, was an older wizard with glasses only slightly thicker than Harry's own, and he nodded to Harry politely. Harry nodded back. Ed took a seat in the other armchair next to Ernie's and snapped his fingers at the doors which promptly closed.

'Brace yourself, Colin,' he said, then nodded to Ernie. 'Off we go.'

There was another tremendous BANG and the bus was underway again. Harry found himself flat on his back on the bed, thrown backwards by the speed of the bus. His head was still throbbing, so Harry decided it would be prudent to stay down for a moment. When the throbbing finally eased, he cautiously sat up and looked out the window.

The bus was on a country road that Harry had never seen before. He gaped, because he hadn't thought he'd been down for that long, but they were nowhere near Magnolia Crescent any longer, possibly even no longer in Surrey. Ed caught sight of Harry's stunned face and smiled kindly.

'This's the road we were on when we got flagged down near you,' he explained. 'We're somewhere up in Northern Ireland right now.' He glanced out the window, then patted Ernie's shoulder as he stood. 'I'll go wake Mister Belkin.'

Harry watched as Ed disappeared up a narrow wooden staircase near the middle of the bus. A few minutes later, he emerged again, leading a sleepy-eyed man in his thirties wearing a crooked stove-top had with a red feather on one side.

'Westland Road, Cookstown,' Ed proclaimed as Ernie stepped on the brake. The bus slowed rapidly and lurched to a stop, causing the man to stumble slightly next to Harry. He mumbled something tiredly and stepped down, taking the bag Ed handed to him. Another BANG resounded and the bus was barrelling down a different street this time.

'How come Muggles don't hear the bus?' Harry asked curiously.

'Magic,' Ed laughed as he leaned back in his seat. 'The bus has charms on it t'keep Muggle folk from payin' too close attention to it an' most Muggles are quite content to ignore anythin' that's unsual to'em anyway.'

With that, he opened up a newspaper - the Daily Prophet, by its headline - and Harry guessed the conversation was closed. This, unfortunately, left Harry with very little to do. He couldn't sleep; the throbbing in his head had mostly subsided, though the loud bangs of the bus tended to send his head pounding again. Looking out the window was quickly losing its appeal as it seemed Ernie was very good at driving fast and not quite as good at staying securely on the road.

This left Harry with plenty of time to think. Unfortunately, what he had to think about most was what had just happened with the Dursleys. He wasn't particularly upset about leaving - part of him wished he'd done it sooner - but the manner in which he left could have been a little less reactionary, even with Aunt Marge deliberately provoking him. Granted, he hadn't had his wand on him, so it rather begged the question if it even counted under the Decree. Then again, considering he'd been sent a warning last year for magic that hadn't even been his, Harry rather doubted that the Ministry would really care about technicalities like that.

Thinking about the Ministry and the likely expulsion he was facing led him to thinking about Hogwarts, the first place he'd really considered to be "home" to him. He would miss the castle a lot, probably more than he would miss Ron or Hermione or Hagrid. Thinking of his friends, however, brought up other questions. Would he be able to see them them at all? Or write to them? Would the Ministry forbid him from coming into the wizarding world ever again? Perhaps he could apprentice under Hagrid as a future groundskeeper, but even that was looking like a best case scenario. It was a depressing thought, really.

Searching for a distraction from his darkening thoughts, Harry looked over at Ed. His eye was caught by the newspaper, which was dominated by a picture of a rather irritated-looking goblin under the headline "Knuts to You: Goblins Announce New Muggle Exchange Rate". He almost asked if he could have a section of it when he noticed the date on the paper and stiffened.

His first thought, irrationally perhaps, was that Ed liked to read old newspapers. It was the only thought that made sense in his mind because, despite the fresh paper and crisp, clear ink, the date on the newspaper couldn't possibly be right. After all, Harry knew perfectly well that today was the thirty-first of July, 1993, and yet the paper proclaimed it to be the thirty-first of July, 1969. It continued to say "1969" even after Harry had closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again.

Stunned, Harry lay back down and stared up at the ceiling of the bus. The whole night seemed to be designed to send him on a mental and emotional rollercoaster, from Aunt Marge to running away to being hit by the Knight Bus and now time travel on top of it? Where would it end?

He must have dozed off at some point because the next thing he knew he was being gently shaken awake by Ed. Rubbing his eyes, Harry sat up and gave the man a questioning look.

'We're comin' up on the Leaky Cauldron now, Colin,' the man said. Sure enough, a moment later Ernie was bringing the bus to a jolting halt outside the corner pub and the doors were opening. It was then that Harry noticed the couple hovering next to the door, the woman carrying a baby while the man carried a couple of suitcases. 'Just go in and tell Tom at the bar that Ed and Ernie sent you. He'll fix you up right,' Ed assured him as he helped him down after the couple.

'Thank you,' Harry said quietly, ducking his head again.

'Not a problem, Colin,' Ed said with a wave. 'You take care now, and remember if you ever need a ride in a hurry, jus' stick out your wand.'

'I will,' Harry assured him as the door to the bus closed. With its customary deafening noise, the Knight Bus disappeared, leaving Harry to turn towards the Leaky Cauldron and make his way inside.

The Cauldron was sparsely populated this late in the evening, mostly consisting of people lingering over dinner or sitting at the bar. A few people looked up when Harry came in, but all of them went back to whatever they were doing almost immediately. Nobody seemed to recognise him. Of course, if this was supposed to be 1969, then no one would have heard of the Boy-Who-Lived; Harry wouldn't even be born for another eleven years!

With that thought firmly in mind, he screwed up his courage and headed for the bar and Tom.

'Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, lad,' the familiar - if somewhat younger-looking - barkeep said amiably. 'What can I get you?' Harry swallowed.

'Ed and Ernie sent me,' he said, doing his best not to stutter. He started to add that he needed a room for the night, but Tom was already nodding.

'Ah, good, good, you made it alright,' he said, much to Harry's bafflement and mild alarm. 'Earlier than he said to expect you, but I guess that's the Knight Bus for you.'

'Er, what?' Harry stammered, blinking in bewilderment. Tom smiled kindly and pointed to one of the back corners.

'Your grandfather's waiting for you over there,' he said patiently. 'And your dinner will be out in a moment. Go on over, you're expected.'

It seemed to be a night of surprises. In a time where no one knew he existed because he hadn't been born, and he was expected? By someone claiming to be his grandfather? Numbly, he followed Tom's pointing finger to the table in the back corner.

The thought occurred to him, belatedly, that this could all be a very clever trap. By then he was most of the way to the table, however, and it took a lot of will to not stop in the middle of the room like a moron. And then it took even more effort to try and keep the shock off his face when he looked up and saw who was waiting for him.

'Good evening, Mr Potter,' said Mr Ollivander mildly. 'Do sit down, won't you? I believe we have much to discuss.'


	3. Ollivander

**H** ARRY STARED ALMOST blankly at the man seated before him. His mind kept trying to think of any reason that a man he'd seen all of once when he was eleven would be here twenty-four years in the past to meet him. That he didn't even have his wand could be part of the reason, but how would Ollivander know that?

'...Did Dumbledore send you?' he asked finally, swallowing when his voice wavered. Ollivander looked amused.

'Albus Dumbledore is a great wizard, to be sure,' he said mildly. 'He is not, however, omniscient, nor is he a Seer.'

'Then,' said Harry in bewilderment, ' _You_ are...?'

'Omniscient?' Ollivander snorted softly. 'Hardly. However, my family has always been prone towards an extra sort of... perceptiveness, you might say.' He nodded to the chair at Harry's hip. 'Sit.'

Harry sat.

'I don't understand,' he said quietly, feeling helplessly out of his depth. It was like being introduced to the wizarding world all over again, only Hagrid wasn't there to ease the way.

'You will,' Ollivander said, and Harry bristled slightly at the knowing tone. He deflated moments later as the man continued, 'I will endeavour to explain as we eat our dinner. Will beef stew suit you? I was not able to See if you had managed to have dinner before your... departure.'

'I... no, sir, I didn't,' Harry said, a little subdued at the reminder of that disastrous dinner. He hadn't managed to eat even a third of what little food he was given. 'Beef stew is fine, sir.'

'It's "grandfather", young man,' Ollivander reminded him gently. Harry glanced up, startled, then ducked his head in a nod.

'Grandfather,' he tried, the word a bit awkward in his mouth as he'd never met his grandparents on either side of his family. He hesitated, then added, 'My name's...' He trailed off. Ollivander was shaking his head.

'Not here,' the man said. 'Not now. You will have enough challenges ahead of you in avoiding slips without people here knowing your real name. Bad enough that your present appearance practically screams "Potter". We'll have to do something about that, too.'

'But--' Harry began, but stopped when Ollivander held up a hand. It was well he did. Moments later, Tom was setting bowls of beef stew down before them along with two large mugs of something fizzing. 'Er, what's this?' he asked as Tom withdrew.

'Butterbeer,' Ollivander replied. 'If I can guess your age correctly, you likely would have been introduced to it during your school year and first visit to Hogsmead.'

Harry's expression clouded at the mention of Hogsmead. He couldn't go there if he was going to be expelled, even if Uncle Vernon had signed the permission slip. Remembering Ollivander's words about not speaking of the future, however, he didn't say anything, choosing instead to take an experimental sip of the "butterbeer". His eyes widened. 'Wow!'

'I thought you might like it better than pumpkin juice,' Ollivander explained. If Harry had been paying attention, he might have sworn the man's expression was cheeky.

Conversation lapsed then as both of them dug into their stew. Harry was only slightly surprised to discover just how hungry he was, practically inhaling half the bowl before he thought to remind himself to slow down and chew so as not to make himself sick. Twice he felt his host's eyes on him, but Ollivander was always looking elsewhere whenever he looked up, his expression pensive. Feeling a little more than unnerved, Harry swallowed a mouthful of stew and cleared his throat.

'Er, Grandfather?' he tried, hoping that repetition might make it easier. Ollivander blinked and looked up.

'Nearly finished, then?' he asked. When Harry ducked his head a little, the man smiled slightly. 'Not to fret, take your time. We'll be going home from here. As you're not old enough to Apparate, you'll be taking my personal portkey for now until we get you keyed into the wards. You are familiar with portkeys?'

'Er, not exactly, s-- Grandfather,' Harry said, not bothering to hide his bewilderment. Ollivander grimaced slightly at that, but shrugged and, after a quick glance around the room, reached beneath his robes and removed a chain with a small pendant barely an inch in diametre. The pendant looked to be made of antique bronze was engraved with a large "O" behind two crossed wands, the curves of the "O" filled by inlayed bluish purple stones.

'This is a portkey,' Ollivander said. 'Mind you, this particular portkey is a family portkey rather an a ministry regulated portkey. You'll find that many older magical families will have something similar, usually a ring or a pendant.' Seeing Harry's nod of comprehension, he slipped the chain over his head and reached across the table, dropping it over Harry's head and around his neck.

'What--' Harry began, then stopped. Ollivander smiled.

'You'll want to be standing when you use it,' he advised. 'But we have time for you to finish your stew.

'Now, portkeys are a very flexible bit of enchantment. Most portkeys fall into three types: tactile, timed, or voice-activated. Family portkeys, such as that one, tend to be voice-activated, responding to a pre-set password. The ministry tends to create timed portkeys for mass transit purposes. I don't mind telling you that I find their idea of what constitutes a good portkey seems rather dubious,' he added conspiratorially. 'Honestly, an old boot or a broken bottle, I ask you!'

Harry snickered a little. Ollivander actually grinned, which Harry was starting to think must be like a laugh to anyone else. Ollivander had struck him as a rather serious man when they'd first met, if rather eccentric. He set down his spoon, finished with his stew. Ollivander saw this and nodded briskly.

'Right, then,' he said, dropping two sickles on the table as he stood. Harry hurried to stand as well. 'To activate that particular portkey, just grasp the pendant and say "Ecce Veritas".'

'What's that?' Harry asked, then blushed, wondering if he was supposed to know that already.

'It's the Ollivander family motto,' Ollivander replied with an enigmatic smile. 'It means "behold the truth". Off you go, then. I'll follow shortly.'

'Okay,' Harry said, still trying to regain some of his equilibrium. Grasping the pendant in his left hand, he hesitated, looking to Ollivander briefly. When the man gave him a reassuring nod, he mentally braced himself and murmured, 'Ecce veritas.'

Travelling by portkey, he decided a few moments later, was perhaps his second least favourite method of magical travel after the Floo. It felt as if someone had stuck a hook through his navel and was pulling him through a very tiny space by that hook. He felt squeezed, compressed, and - when the world stopped spinning and he stumbled to a stop in an unfamiliar room - more than a little disoriented.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when there was a loud CRACK! behind him. Whipping his head around was instinctive, but proved to be a very bad idea as the world spun dangerously around him. A pair of hands steadied him and he looked up into Ollivander's concerned face.

'Are you alright, lad?' he asked. Harry whimpered faintly. His head had resumed throbbing, and now he was nauseas on top of it, seriously wishing he hadn't eaten such a big bowl of stew so fast. Ollivander's frown of concern deepened, and he led Harry over to a nearby couch and had him sit down. 'Steady, lad,' he murmured, and took out his wand.

Harry closed his eyes, making himself take slow, deep breaths to try and fend off the nausea. He distantly heard Ollivander muttering the familiar diagnostic spell Madam Pomfrey used, followed by a soft tsking.

'Nasty concussion you've got,' the man muttered under his breath. There was a rustling, and then he was moving away, leaving Harry sitting on the couch. He was back not a minute later, and Harry cracked an eye open to see that he held two vials filled with rather familiar-looking potions. 'Here we are. Anti-nausea first, then the headache reliever.'

Too disoriented and in pain to argue, Harry took the potions he was given and downed them both without complaint. The anti-nausea potion, at least, tasted pleasantly of oranges and ginger, and it made the rather chalky headache reliever not seem so bad when taken back to back. He sighed in relief as he felt his stomach settle down immediately, the throbbing in his head easing a moment later, and he managed to open his eyes to look at his host.

Ollivander was looking at him thoughtfully.

'Well, lad,' he said when he noticed he had Harry's attention. 'I dare say you've got a number of questions. There's much we have to do in order to protect you properly while you're here, though most of it will have to wait until tomorrow. How old are you?'

'Um...' Harry hesitated, wondering at the question when he'd already been told his host didn't need to know things about him. The look on Ollivander's face, however, convinced him that the man wouldn't ask questions he didn't feel he needed the answers to. 'Just turned thirteen today, sir. Grandfather,' he amended.

'We'll have to work on that,' muttered Ollivander, but nodded. 'It would probably be best to change your age as well as your name and appearance.'

'How will we do that?' Harry asked, bewildered. Changing his name seemed easy enough - pick a name and don't tell anyone anything different - and glamours could take care of his appearance, but his age? Ollivander was looking at him knowingly.

'Are you familiar with magical contracts?' Ollivander asked. Harry shook his head. 'Well, as with most contracts, a magical contract is a binding document. With magical contracts, such as sales receipts, housing deeds, wills and the like, one is required by magic to use his or her true full name. As for your appearance, glamours can be cancelled or seen through with the right spell. Naturally, there are ways around both of these obstacles, though none of them are particularly easy and quite a few are also not precisely legal.'

Harry swallowed. This was a lot to take in, and his situation was beginning to look quite a bit more complicated than he'd first assumed. He was even more glad now that Ollivander had given him the headache reliever. There was simply too much to take in all at once.

Ollivander smiled gently and patted his shoulder.

'You needn't worry about it just yet, lad,' he said. 'The wards here will mask your presence while we sort out what you wish to do and how you wish to do it. For now, I'll show you to your room and let you get settled.'

Harry bit back the questions he had - a room? for him? - and stood to follow Ollivander out of the room. The hall beyond was dark wood that looked almost black until the sconces flared to life at their approach and the walls warmed to a dark walnut. Ollivander led him up a narrow flight of stairs to what Harry guessed was the second floor.

'That's the master suite,' he said, gesturing to one of the doors they passed. 'Work room, store room, family sitting room, ah! Here we are,' he added, pausing next to the fourth door. In the light of the sconces, Harry could just make out a rather elaborate bird in flight carved into the wood above the door handle.

Ollivander pushed the door open and gestured for Harry to precede him. In contrast to the hallways and staircase, the walls in this room appeared to be made of a much lighter wood that made the walls look golden in the light of the sconces. The furniture - a queen-size bed with carved headboard and matching footboard, a chest of drawers, and a full-sized desk with a slat-backed chair before it - was all of a slightly darker golden wood. There were blue-violet curtains on the room's single picture window above the desk that matched the comforter on the bed, which had been turned down to reveal light blue sheets.

'You can decorate these rooms however you wish,' Ollivander was saying, and Harry wrenched his attention back to his host. Ollivander was smiling faintly at Harry's obvious distraction, but he merely gestured to the right-hand wall where two doors stood side by side. 'The left door is the attached bathroom. The right is the closet. You're familiar with house elves, I trust?' At Harry's cautious nod, Ollivander went on, 'Tibby and Caro are a mated pair. They've been instructed not to refer to you by name until you choose which name you wish to go by.

'There are some areas of the house off-limits to anyone not keyed into the family wards, but you may wander anywhere else you wish. If you get lost, just call one of the elves to guide you. Breakfast is whenever you wake up, and you may wish to tell Tibby what you prefer to eat.' Ollivander paused. 'Any questions?

'Too many,' Harry said faintly. He was feeling overwhelmed again. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Ollivander patted his shoulder.

'Get some rest, lad,' the man suggested gently. 'We can talk more in the morning.'

Harry nodded absently, still looking around the room in amazement. The Ollivander of this time didn't know him from Adam, and yet he'd met him at the Leaky Cauldron, ordered dinner for him, had a room ready for him in his home....

He reached up and touched the bronze pendant around his neck, almost fancying that he could feel the flutter of magic beneath his fingertips. A portkey. A _family_ portkey, and Ollivander had put it around Harry's neck and hadn't asked for it back. Part of him - the part of him that always seemed to speak up when he was away from the Dursleys and Hogwarts - was naturally suspicious and questioning of the gesture. Another part of him - the part that hurt quietly whenever he'd been passed over by his aunt and uncle in favour of Dudley, that railed silently against being called a freak and a liar and a troublemaker - that part of him felt a curious warmth setting in his chest.

He looked around, wanting to ask Ollivander more about the pendant, and stopped. Ollivander had vanished, leaving the door to the room - Harry's room - closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pendant that makes up the Ollivander family portkey is intended to be made of [Corinthian Bronze](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corinthian_bronze) and [Tanzanite](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanzanite). While the exact ratio of metals for traditional Corinthian bronze has been lost to time in the mundane world, I'm quite sure that wizards would have preserved the knowledge. Either that or that pendant is just that ancient.


	4. The Eagle's Nest

**U** NCERTAIN, HARRY EYED the closed door, worrying his lower lip. He hadn't noticed Ollivander leaving and couldn't help but wonder whether he'd been locked in. Hesitantly, still clutching the pendant, he approached the door and touched the handle. The cool metal sent a shiver up his arm, but otherwise did nothing, so he carefully pressed down.

The door opened.

Feeling a little silly, he closed the door back and looked around the room again. Compared to Gryffindor Tower, he supposed the room looked rather plain, but it was still much more grand than his room - Dudley's second bedroom - had been. It even seemed larger than the dorm room without any other beds in the room, but then he wouldn't be asked to share this room with four other boys. Making a decision, he turned towards the door Ollivander had said was the closet.

It was a closet, though a fairly large one. At the moment, it was mostly empty save for a plush, royal blue bathrobe and a plain but serviceable-looking old-fashioned nightshirt. Harry frowned at it a little, but shrugged it off. It wasn't as if Ollivander had known what size he'd be, right? Closing the closet again, he moved to the bathroom.

He was a bit taken aback when he opened the door onto a much larger room than he'd anticipated. The bathtub alone looked more like a small swimming pool than a bathtub, and was lined with several different faucets with their own spigots. Upon closer inspection, Harry noticed that each one was labelled, but rather than just the usual "hot" and "cold" labels in muggle homes, there were some labelled as "lavender" and "sage" and "milk" and even one labelled "blood" that made Harry's eyebrows raise incredulously.

In contrast to the gold and blue of the bedroom, the bathroom was done in what looked like white and grey marble with a nearly white wood. The towels stacked by the bathtub looked grey at first until Harry moved closer and realised they were really a kind of dusty-looking pale green. The marble, too, appeared to have green mixed in with the grey when he looked at it closer.

Harry stared at the tub warily. The number of faucets was a bit daunting, but he felt rather disgusting wearing Dudley's old cast-offs. Coming to a decision, he retrieved the bathrobe from the closet and hung it on a hook by the door, then turned to the tub. The hot water faucet proved to work as expected, as did the cold water faucet. Feeling greatly daring, Harry tried one of the smaller faucets (the label said "pine") and discovered that it produced a stream of thick green liquid that smelled strongly of pine and turned into bubbles as it mixed with the water. Having never been allowed the indulgence of a bubble bath before, Harry almost forgot to turn the spigot off again.

Once he was in the bath, he couldn't resist playing with the bubbles a bit. He felt a little childish taking this much pleasure in a bubble bath, but it wasn't as if Ron or Seamus was there to make fun of him. The pine scent was very relaxing, and he caught himself yawning a couple of times. Taking that as a sign, he began to hunt for the soap.

In contrast to the many spigots of scented bubbles (at least, he assumed the others were bubbles, too) the soap was a creamy white and, when he sniffed it experimentally, proved to smell like ordinary soap. Rather than be disappointed, Harry felt strangely reassured and promptly set to work washing up. He was yawning constantly by the time he'd rinsed the soap from his hair, and nearly fell flat on his face climbing out of the bath. Not seeing his clothes immediately and too tired to think on it, he dragged on the bathrobe and stumbled his way back into the bedroom. His last thought as he crawled up onto bed was that he could get used to living like this.

He awoke early, or at least he assumed it was early by the dim light from his window until he found the clock and realised that it was half-past eight, and that it was apparently drizzling outside. Harry sat up slowly, and received his first shock of the morning. Although he couldn't remember it, someone had apparently entered his room and removed the bathrobe, dressed him in the nightshirt he'd seen before and tucked him under the covers. His glasses had somehow found their way to rest on the bedside table next to the clock.

Reaching for his glasses, he put them on and looked around the room warily. He almost expected to see the mysterious person who had done this lurking in the shadows of the room, but there was no one there and nothing else was out of place. Not that he'd really know if anything _was_ out of place, he realised sheepishly, and he thought he could remember Ollivander having said something about house elves.

He frowned slightly at that, remembering Dobby. He might not know much about the wizarding world, but what he'd inferred of Dobby's treatment in the Malfoy household had reminded him painfully of his own treatment at the hands of the Dursleys. He didn't want to think that this sort of treatment of house elves was  _ normal _ \- he knew by now that it certainly wasn't normal or even accepted among humans in the muggle world - but as isolated from the wizarding world as he'd been, he just didn't know. Maybe he should find out a bit more about the house elves here. What were their names, again? Tibby and-

'Young master is calling Tibby?'

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice behind him. He hadn't heard anyone enter, hadn't even heard what he was starting to think of as the tell-tale "pop" that he'd associated with Dobby's movements. Warily, he turned around.

He blinked.

The being in front of him was still clearly a house elf, but there was nothing else about him - her? - which brought Dobby to mind. Dobby had been hunched, frail-looking (Harry didn't want to think "subservient") and rather ragged in the pillow case he wore. Tibby, on the other hand, was very different. While still small in stature, Tibby was by no means frail, and stood straighter under Harry's regard, hands clasped behind his - her? - back and expression politely attentive. He - she? - was wearing a long, periwinkle blue smock that reminded Harry vividly of the professional gourmet chefs he'd seen once on a telly program his aunt had been watching with a kerchief tied rather like a turban around his - her? - head.

'I... I'm sorry,' Harry stammered, mind racing. 'I didn't mean to... I didn't pull you away from anything important, did I?' Tibby blinked, head tilting to one side slightly to regard Harry curiously.

'No, young master. Tibby just finished serving breakfast to Master Tavi,' the elf replied. 'Is young master wishing for breakfast as well?' Harry was starting to think that Tibby must be female. Her voice was higher in pitch than Dobby's had been, but softer without actually being quiet. She was also staring at him expectantly, and he belatedly realised that she had asked him a question.

'Er, yes, please,' Harry said, and started as the house elf promptly popped out of sight before he could manage to voice any of his questions. Great, now what was he supposed to do?

He needn't have worried. Tibby returned in short order with a tray and a folded robe that proved to be slightly oversized on Harry's thin frame. Despite her disapproval at how underfed he was, Tibby was quite willing to stay a bit and talk to the "young master". Dazedly, Harry learned that he was in the larger Ollivander manor house known as the Eagle's Nest, but Tibby refused to tell him why it was called that, stating quite firmly that "only Master Tavi can tell young master that".

Over the course of breakfast, Harry learned a great deal more about house elves than he'd learned in the entirety of his second year, and it proved that Dobby was very much _not_ a normal house elf, and that what he'd told Harry should be taken with a grain of salt. While house elves were indeed slaves by the traditional muggle definition, Tibby informed him that they had been specifically created, shaped by magic to tend to the needs of wizards, and that duty was bound into their very nature by their own magic.

'So if a house elf were freed, er, given clothes...' Harry started, then stopped at the stricken look on Tibby's face.

'To be given clothes is a house elf's death sentence, young master,' Tibby answered fearfully. 'To be cast off of the family the house elf serves... oh!' She shuddered and hunched in on herself, and Harry, alarmed, hastened to assure her that he certainly wouldn't be doing that anytime soon.

'I didn't mean to frighten you,' he said awkwardly. 'It's just... there was a house elf who saved my life a while back, and he was given clothes by accident, and I don't want him to die even if his idea of saving my life led to me spending a lot of time in the hospital wing-' Realising he was babbling (and that Tibby was beginning to look at him with some consternation) Harry stopped talking and ducked his head a bit sheepishly. 'Er, sorry.'

'Young master is not needing to apologize,' Tibby said at length, studying him thoughtfully. 'Tibby is being told that young master is not being born in this time, so Tibby is not knowing what can be done for the elf who is saving young master's life.'

'Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated, for when I go back to my own time,' Harry assured her, and the house elf nodded.

'Tibby will think on this,' she said, then reached into the pocket of her smock and pulled out a slender booklet. 'Master Tavi is asking Tibby to give young master this book to look at, and to be reminding young master that names have power.'

'Thank you-' Harry started to say, but stopped as he realised that Tibby had already popped away as soon as he'd taken the book. Puzzled by the elf's words, he looked down at the booklet he'd been given.

It was, in fact, a book of names. A note was pinned to the inside cover with a paperclip, and Harry boggled at what he'd previously thought to be a completely muggle piece of equipment being used by a wizard, before actually reading the note.

"I have known for some time," the note read, "that I would find myself with a son rather late in life. Magic can be a fickle force at times and, as all three of my children are female, I cannot help but wonder at my being directed by Magic to collect you upon your arrival. While I would be honoured should you choose this possibility, I will not require it of you to continue residing with me. Regardless of your choice, you will need a name to be called while you are here, and this I urge you to choose wisely and with great care.

"Sincerely,

"Garrick Octavius Ollivander."

'Master Tavi,' Harry murmured in sudden understanding, and found himself grinning at the thought of the elderly wandmaker having a nickname that put him in mind of a mongoose from an old children's story Dudley had thrown away. Recalling Tibby's remark that names have power, Harry felt the grin slip as he wondered if that hadn't been a slightly more deliberate nickname than just a house elf's shortening of her master's name, particularly as "Octavius" was Ollivander's middle name rather than his first. Feeling more than a little disquieted, Harry opened the book and began to read while he finished his breakfast.

He was still reading when Tibby quietly returned and collected his dishes, leaving a note beside his knee. When he roused enough to notice the note, he discovered it was from his host, requesting for him to meet in the family parlour once he'd chosen a name. The note included directions and an addition that the door would be left open to allow him in.

'Curiouser and curiouser,' he muttered, then snorted, amused at himself. Putting the note in the pocket of his borrowed robe, Harry turned his attention back to the book of names.

**I** T HAD TAKEN longer for Harry to find a new name than he'd expected. He'd started by simply trying to read through the book for names that he liked, but there were too many of them, and eventually he'd given up and started looking for names that sounded enough like his own that he could easily learn to answer to it as if he'd been called by his new name all his life. While that had narrowed the selection considerably, he still took his time, taking into account the meanings of the remaining options.

So it was that, when Harry made his way down the stairs to the family parlour, it was with the book held close to his chest and the vague thought of having his eyesight corrected so that the name he chose might be a little less... ironic.

The door stood open by a hand span, just as had been indicated by the note, so Harry was expecting the spill of golden candlelight into the hall. What he did not expect, however, was the sound of his host speaking with an unknown woman inside.

'I'm not questioning you, Ro,' Ollivander was saying. 'It's more than obvious the lad needs some care and affection in his life.'

'Then why protest it be you to give it?' came the amused reply from the woman, making Harry bite his lip and look down at the floor. 'You are not half as old as you pretend to be for your customers, Garrick Octavius.'

'I don't protest, Ro!' Ollivander said quickly. Then he sighed. 'I merely... cannot see...'

'You fear rejection,' the mysterious "Ro" replied gently, making Harry look up in shock. 'As does he. As do all who have suffered neglect at the hands of those who should have cherished them.

'But, I believe we would do well to invite the "young master" in to join us now,' she went on with a soft chuckle. Harry winced. _Caught_.

Squaring his shoulders and keeping the book close to his chest, Harry pushed the door open a little further and carefully, uncertain whether it was really safe in such an obviously warded home, slipped inside.

'I'm sorry, sir,' he mumbled a little, glancing up shyly. 'I didn't mean to... eaves... drop...'

He trailed off, confused. He'd clearly heard a woman's voice in the room with Ollivander, but as his wary eyes searched the room he could find only his host. Even the two house elves were absent, the only sign of them being the freshly-laid tea tray on the table in the middle of the room.

'I suppose it's to be expected from a curious lad to be curious,' his host was saying as Harry wrenched his attention back. Ollivander smiled a bit ruefully. 'You must forgive me if sometimes I am a trifle unsure of myself around you.'

'Er, it's alright,' Harry said, fidgeting. 'Um... not to be rude, but... I heard someone else speaking, and...'

'Yes, yes, that would be my ancestress Ro,' Ollivander answered, his expression turning a bit miffed. 'Love the woman, truly, but she does like to stick her nose in.'

'And I'll thank you to mind your tongue when speaking of my nose, Garrick Octavius,' the woman's voice came unexpectedly from above. 'Well, young master, I trust you are at least passingly familiar with magical portraits?'

Slowly, Harry looked up.

The portrait that hung above the mantle on the opposite side of the room was both stately and elegant, or so Harry assumed as he took in the woman portrayed there. Smooth auburn hair framed a face both strong-featured and soft. Dark eyes gazed out at him with detached consideration, a sparkle of interest lurking in their depths. Beneath a nose that was rather too strong to completely fit the rest of her features curved a faint smile that hinted at secrets and knowledge beyond the viewer's understanding. Her periwinkle blue robes were edged in bronze and, to Harry's shock, bore a rather familiar eagle crest on the left shoulder.

'Close the door, please,' Rowena Ravenclaw said gently as she beckoned him further inside the parlour. 'We have much to discuss.'


End file.
